A Walk in the Dark
by Nan Smith
Summary: When a super-hero has a bad day, he *really* has a bad day!


  
The familiar characters and settings of this story are the   
property of DC Comics, Warner Bros. December 3rd Productions,   
et al. but the story is mine.  
  
___________________  
  
A Walk in the Dark  
By Nan Smith deimos1@earthlink.net  
Rated PG  
___________________  
  
Suicide Slum at three in the morning wasn't the place for a   
stroll, Clark Kent reflected, grimly. He eyed the open space   
before him with acute suspicion. The sight of a man in halfway   
decent clothing around here was an open invitation to a   
mugging, but what else was he supposed to do? There really   
wasn't much choice. He had to find somewhere that he could get   
help.  
  
He zipped up his leather jacket against the chilly mist that   
rose off the bay and permeated the air, still searching the   
darkness. Nothing appeared to be moving except for the shadowy   
form of an alley cat that streaked across the broken sidewalk   
and vanished between two buildings.  
  
The streetlights ahead of him were out--vandalized, he thought.   
The glow of the lamps apparently made good targets for rock   
throwers, and the only pay phones he had found so far had been   
in an equivalent condition. Ancient tenements rose on all   
sides, their windows long since broken and boarded over. A   
"Condemned" sign hung by one corner from its nail on the door   
behind him. The sign was almost as old as the building. Tearing   
down these decrepit structures apparently wasn't high on the   
priorities list of the city planners.  
  
His joints still ached from the Kryptonite exposure. How long   
it would take for his powers to return was anybody's guess. It   
had been all he could do to get away; Lois would kill him when   
she discovered what a chance he had taken but what he had   
learned had been worth it, even if things hadn't gone exactly   
as he had planned. Only, now he had to survive to reach   
civilization again.  
  
Somewhere not far away, he could hear the strains of rap music,   
the bass booming away at a frequency designed to vibrate   
through his bones, and with it the roar of engines. That would   
undoubtedly be the drag racers he'd busted a few nights ago.   
They'd simply moved their location...again.  
  
Taking a deep breath, he moved out onto the sidewalk, walking   
at a brisk pace calculated to discourage would-be muggers. Mist   
curled in the air about him, chilly and damp. The dark alleys   
that opened between the buildings loomed menacingly, each a   
possible place of concealment. He kept a good distance from   
them and passed each one quickly. Here and there, drunks slept   
in doorways and between trashcans, and an occasional dark   
figure staggered or slunk away into the darkness. Clark gave   
each a carefully wide berth. He wasn't looking for trouble   
right now. All he wanted to do was get out of this place as   
fast as possible with his skin relatively intact.  
  
The rusted hulks of cars, stripped and left to disintegrate by   
the side of the street were also places of concealment, he   
realized belatedly, avoiding one ancient shell as he hurried   
down the uneven sidewalk. The place was eerily quiet, except   
for the distant throb of the bass speakers. Across the street,   
he could see a pair of shadowy figures fade into an alleyway,   
and somewhere not far away a cat squalled. There was a clatter   
of aluminum trashcans and a skittering noise. Something--a rat,   
he thought--squealed sharply. The sound was followed by a   
second yowl, and a third. Tomcats squaring off, he told   
himself; there were plenty of stray cats in this section of   
town.  
  
Where were the police when you needed them? The answer was, of   
course, that they weren't here. This section of Suicide Slum   
was an area where the cops didn't come in groups of less than   
six, and they avoided it whenever they could. That was why   
Superman made it a priority to patrol around here more often   
than in other, more affluent sections of town. Unfortunately,   
Superman was now the one who needed help and there wasn't   
anyone to help him.  
  
He increased his pace until he was jogging, but that couldn't   
last long, weakened as he was by Kryptonite exposure. Panting,   
he leaned against the nearest wall. He wasn't in any shape to   
do this, that was certain. He'd better hoard his strength in   
case he really needed to run. Around here, that was a distinct   
possibility.  
  
This close to the harbor, mist hid the sky and its moist   
tendrils floated visibly in the air. One brighter spot in the   
greyness told him the moon was up, but it shed little light on   
the scene. A pale circle of illumination given out by a lone,   
unbroken street lamp lighted the dark street far ahead, but the   
rest of the area was cloaked in blackness.  
  
Maybe it would just be better to find a place of concealment,   
he thought, and then wait until the sun came up. That would be   
in about three hours; it wouldn't be all that bad to wait--  
except he could as easily be found by the denizens of this   
place and murdered for the clothing on his back.  
  
The sound of the rap music had been growing slowly but steadily   
louder, and the roar of engines was increasing. The racers   
weren't far away. It had been a growing problem in Metropolis   
for months now; young, bored kids, turning the streets of   
Suicide Slum into their dragstrip. Whenever the police managed   
to close down one group another sprang up somewhere else.  
  
There was a screech of tires, and the sound of racing engines   
was suddenly overpowering. The music burst upon his ears, the   
deafening beat of the bass pounding through him, powerful   
enough to make the bones of his skull vibrate as three   
rattletrap cars rounded the corner on two wheels, one after   
another, each jockeying for position.  
  
One car nudged the fender of the one in the lead, and the   
driver nearly lost control. His vehicle swerved and two wheels   
bumped up onto the sidewalk. The battered front grill connected   
with the equally battered form of a mailbox, knocking it   
sideways. Clark jumped back to avoid the flying objects and   
heard the mailbox impact the corner of the building behind him   
as he hurled himself headfirst into the nearest alleyway. The   
car roared by, its wheels crunching on the deteriorating   
pavement and scattering fragments behind it as it tore past. He   
heard war whoops from the occupants and glass shattered against   
the concrete sidewalk, inches from his face; a thrown bottle,   
he thought. The bass throb swelled to thunderous proportions,   
and then they were gone, racing away into the dark, leaving   
behind the stench of gasoline fumes. All he could see were the   
retreating taillights as they dwindled in the distance and   
vanished. The ear-shattering pulse of the music decreased   
rapidly in volume, until it was again only a faint and distant   
vibration on the air.  
  
Slowly, he picked himself up from the ground to discover   
standing before him a pair of men clad in dirty, mismatched   
garments, one of them brandishing a switchblade that must   
measure no less than eight inches in length. Through the   
scraggly beards that coated their chins and upper lips, he   
could see two identical, unpleasant grins.  
  
"Hi," he said.  
  
The two men looked at each other. The nearer one spoke. "Gimme   
your wallet."  
  
Slowly, Clark reached into his back pocket and removed the   
wallet. Trying to fight these two in his current weakened   
condition didn't seem like a very good idea.  
  
The unarmed man snatched it from his hand and tore it open.   
"Twenty bucks?" he demanded. He dropped the wallet on the   
ground. "Gimme your watch!"  
  
Clark removed the watch and handed it over. The mugger grabbed   
it and stuffed it into a pocket of his ragged coat. "Empty your   
pockets out!"  
  
Clark obeyed. There was nothing of value in them. His cellular   
phone, of course, was gone, or he would have called for help an   
hour ago.  
  
The knife wielder grunted. "Awright, take off your jacket. I   
want your clothes."  
  
**********  
  
Lois Lane awoke suddenly and with a jolt. The clock on her   
bedside table said it was just past three a.m. and the room was   
quiet. Clark's side of the bed was vacant; there was no sign of   
him moving around in the bathroom.  
  
What had awakened her?  
  
She blinked up into the dark, trying to pinpoint what it was.  
  
The room was completely silent except for the fluttering of an   
insect's wings against the windowpane. There was nothing that   
should be producing this sense of unease.  
  
Lois turned over, trying to get comfortable. Surely, Clark   
would be back soon.  
  
Ten minutes later, she was still wide awake. Her pillow seemed   
to be full of previously unnoticed lumps and the brand new,   
extremely comfortable mattress had developed them as well.  
  
Resigned to the inevitable, she sat up and reached out to turn   
on the table lamp. Something was bothering her; a vague feeling   
of alarm, of something not right. Again, she glanced at the   
clock. It was nearly three-fifteen. Clark was usually back long   
before this unless some kind of emergency had come up.  
  
Well, she wasn't going to get any sleep this way. With a sigh,   
she reached for the TV remote control and switched on the   
television, searching for a news channel. Maybe she could find   
a report of Superman's activities to tell her what was keeping   
him.  
  
Apparently, there were no major disasters of any sort tonight.   
A 3.4 earthquake in California, which had caused only the most   
minor of damage, didn't seem to qualify. But there had been a   
holdup and subsequent riot and fire at the Alley Cat Bar near   
the docks. Hadn't that been the place Clark said he was going   
to stake out this evening? The bar was in the roughest section   
of town, where Suicide Slum impinged upon the bay. Surely, he'd   
be helping out there if there were lives at risk.  
  
But in spite of the news report, she could find no mention of   
Superman. The fire had gotten a good hold, probably due, she   
thought cynically, to the fact that the fire fighters and   
police were reluctant to venture into that section of town. It   
looked to her like Metropolis's Finest had shown up in force   
and heavily armed. She hadn't seen that kind of a concentration   
of police cruisers since the President had visited Metropolis a   
few years ago. The blaze had spread to several other rickety   
buildings, and sparks were threatening structures across the   
street.  
  
So, where was Clark? She'd warned him to be careful. The theft   
of Kryptonite from STAR Labs two days before, almost certainly   
an inside job, should have been enough to make him cautious,   
and he'd promised her faithfully that he would be. Besides, he   
had pointed out, he was going there as Charles King, the deck   
hand. There would be no reason for anyone to pull out   
Kryptonite on him. So where *was* he?  
  
Well, she could try calling him. She hesitated only for a   
moment, then reached for the phone. Even if he was busy, he'd   
understand. It wasn't as if she made a habit of this.  
  
The cell phone's answer function was her only reply. Lois left   
a message for him to call her and hung up, unsatisfied. The   
nebulous sense of something amiss that had woken her was   
growing. After a moment, she made a decision and slid out of   
bed. She certainly wasn't going to get back to sleep anyway. It   
wouldn't hurt for her to simply drive over to the fire. She'd   
be safe in the Cherokee. At the very least, she might get a   
story out of it, and maybe she'd find Clark.  
  
Satisfied with her rationalization, she began to dress.  
  
**********  
  
This wasn't funny at all, Clark decided. The muggers had taken   
all of his outer clothing, leaving him in his bare feet, T-  
shirt and briefs, and nothing else. The month might be June but   
this close to the water it was chilly! The only thing of value   
that they hadn't taken was his wedding ring, and that was only   
because they hadn't seen it. He retrieved his wallet after some   
search, and most of the contents. The loss of the money wasn't   
important. At least he was unhurt, but the next person who   
tried to mug him wasn't going to find much worth taking.  
  
And it was going to be embarrassing showing up at a police   
station or anywhere else in his current condition. On the other   
hand, he couldn't stay here. That was pretty much guaranteed to   
get him into worse trouble. Maybe his powers would return soon,   
he thought, hopefully. As it was, this was going to be a long,   
cold walk--unless one of these tenement clotheslines had   
something he could borrow for a little while. It seemed   
unlikely that anyone would open a door for a man in his   
underwear at this time of night. He could always return   
anything he took later, along with some kind of compensation   
for the inconvenience.  
  
Assuming he didn't manage to get mugged again.  
  
Cautiously, he peered out of the alley. No one appeared to be   
in sight, and at least it was dark. He hadn't expected to be   
grateful for the lack of lighting, but a lot of things hadn't   
gone as he'd anticipated this evening.  
  
First, there had been the surveillance in the Alley Cat Bar.   
Timothy Breen, was a petty thief and occasional courier for   
Intergang and Clark had been keeping an eye on him for weeks.   
The man had met his contact, all right--a prominent member of   
the Metropolis City Council; one of the few Clark would have   
sworn was clean. He'd eavesdropped on their conversation and   
now possessed a great deal of information that should lead,   
eventually, to a lot of people losing their positions in the   
city government. All that remained then was to return home.  
  
Only then the unexpected had happened.  
  
The Councilman had opened his briefcase, removed a familiar   
metal box and lifted the lid. Clark, seated in the shadows, two   
tables away, had had no time to move without drawing attention   
to himself and struggled to control his reaction to the chunk   
of Kryptonite. He could feel his powers draining away as he sat   
there, but he didn't dare attempt to leave. His legs would have   
given way instantly if he had so much as tried to stand. The   
two men had talked for nearly ten minutes, the green stone   
sitting in the open container between them, shielded from the   
view of other customers by the body of the Councilman. Only   
Clark, seated in the shadowed corner, could see the evil, green   
glow of the object on the table. Then, at last, Breen closed   
the box and tucked it into the capacious pocket of his baggy   
coat.  
  
And at that minute, two men who had been sitting at the bar   
announced a holdup.  
  
They had lined up the patrons, many of them seamen who had just   
received their pay, and proceeded to relieve them of every item   
of value in their possession. Clark, at the end of the line,   
watched as they worked their way toward him, knowing that if   
they drew the attention of Councilman Pearson to him, the jig   
was up.  
  
One of the men took the metal box out of Breen's pocket, tried   
futilely to open it, and then tossed it onto the pile of loot   
that was steadily growing by the door.  
  
He never knew how the fight started, but all at once the mass   
of big, burly men surged forward, and the two holdup men went   
down under a wave of bodies. One of the guns fired, and a   
ceiling light exploded in a shower of glass and sparks. A   
bottle flew across the room, and someone else threw a chair.   
One of the female employees screamed and ducked under a table.  
  
Clark made for the pile of belongings, his goal the lead box.   
The last thing he needed was for Intergang to get hold of a   
chunk of Kryptonite. As his hand closed around it, someone hit   
him on the side of the head and he went down, but managed to   
land on his hands and knees. The door was just beyond him, and   
he crawled toward it, avoiding the solidly intertwined mass of   
cursing, struggling bodies. Once outside, he could use his   
cellular phone to call the police. He was certainly in no   
condition to do anything about the barroom brawl that had   
suddenly erupted, but at least he could summon help.  
  
He made it out the door at last, accompanied by a pair of men,   
who lurched after him, straining and swearing as they fought.   
Clark staggered to his feet and stumbled away, to come up   
gasping against a crumbling brick wall. A pile of garbage bags,   
leaking garbage, was stacked against it, and he leaned back,   
panting, against the damp bricks.  
  
After a moment, he groped for his phone, only to discover that   
it was gone. He must have lost it when he fell, he thought, and   
there was no way he was going to try to go back inside to get   
it. Maybe he could find a pay phone to make a call.  
  
The heavy little lead box in his hand drew his attention. This   
was the Kryptonite that had vanished from STAR Labs two days   
ago. The symbol on the lid was unmistakable. Somehow,   
Councilman Pearson had gotten hold of it; he might even have   
been behind the theft for all Clark knew.  
  
The box was too big to fit in the pockets of his jacket or of   
his jeans. Gripping it in one hand, he started down the street,   
looking for a pay phone. The area wasn't good and for the first   
time, his vulnerability dawned on him. It was one in the   
morning, and between him and civilization lay Suicide Slum. As   
Superman, he was invulnerable but without his powers and with   
no transportation but his feet, he was as easily hurt as anyone   
else. He had to get out of here, and it could be a very long   
walk.  
  
**********  
  
At least the muggers hadn't done anything worse than relieve   
him of his belongings. Clark pulled his T-shirt down as far as   
it would go and moved out onto the sidewalk, hugging the   
building. Dressed as he was, his feeling of being exposed was   
more acute than ever. True, he flew about every day in a skin-  
tight red-and-blue outfit, but at least then he was *covered*,   
and it was by his own choice.  
  
The skin on the back of his neck and shoulders prickled as he   
moved along, feeling as if unfriendly eyes watched his every   
move. He strained his ears for the slightest sound that would   
warn him of an imminent attack. The sounds of the nightlife in   
Suicide Slum weren't reassuring. Somewhere a dog howled and the   
noise was joined by several others, until a chorus of canine   
song was going full blast. Here and there, he could hear the   
sounds of cats challenging each other, or the occasional tomcat   
serenading his current lady-love. A huge, rusted dumpster in   
one alleyway gave out odors he could detect a block away, even   
without his enhanced sense of smell, and passing it, he could   
hear the stealthy sounds of motion as scavengers moved about   
among the decaying garbage. The form of a man slumped against   
it, and Clark heard the clink of glass. The smell of cheap   
booze was strong in his nostrils.  
  
At least, the ache in his joints was fading. That had to be   
some kind of improvement. Still, it had been a good idea to   
stash the lead box under a pile of broken cement chunks barely   
a block from the bar. If he'd still had it when the muggers   
held him up, it would now be in their hands. He could come back   
for it tomorrow when his powers had returned.  
  
Something struck the edge of the dumpster from above and burst   
open; a plastic garbage bag, he realized belatedly as he jumped   
back from the flying debris, dropped from an upper story window   
in the general direction of the big container. His heel snagged   
on a piece of broken pavement and he staggered backward. One   
foot met nothing and he was suddenly falling. He flailed out   
with his hands and caught the edge of the opening with one   
hand.  
  
For a moment, he swung by his fingers, breathing hard, and   
managed to grasp the edge with his free hand. It was an open   
sewer manhole, he saw. He hauled himself slowly and painfully   
from the hole, grimacing at the fragrant aromas that drifted   
upward from the aperture. When he regained the surface, he got   
painfully to his feet, brushing dirt and gravel from his hands   
and knees. The sooner he got out of here, the better, before he   
managed to kill himself, he thought, unhappily. Somewhere in   
the distance, he could still hear the vibration of the rap   
music. Recalling his previous encounter with the racers, he   
hoped fervently that they would stay away.  
  
To the east, the sky was brighter. Could it be so late that the   
sun was coming up? He was sure that much time couldn't possibly   
have passed. The color seemed wrong for a sunrise, anyway, and   
now that he thought about it, there seemed to be a faint smell   
of smoke on the night breeze. It must be a fire over by the   
harbor, he realized. And Superman was in no shape to help.  
  
He stifled a soft swear word. This whole night had been one   
disaster after another. Sometimes he thought the Fates had it   
in for him.  
  
Well, he could head for it and try to get help from the fire   
fighters. On the other hand, the part of Suicide Slum that lay   
between him and the harbor was the roughest section of the   
slums. It had taken him two hours to work his way through it,   
unharmed. Regretfully, he rejected the option. It would be   
wiser to go on and get to a better section of town. In his   
current state of dress, a cop was bound to spot him when he got   
out of this place, even this early in the morning. It might be   
embarrassing, but it was a lot better than getting killed.  
  
His mistreated wallet was lying on the sidewalk. Once more, he   
picked it up and with a final glance at the malodorous pit,   
started west again, looking around alertly. One of his hands   
had been scraped painfully in the mishap, but all in all, he'd   
gotten off lightly. If he'd fallen down the manhole, he could   
have been seriously hurt.  
  
Bare feet, he discovered shortly, were not suited to walking on   
the broken pavement. Within a few minutes he was limping   
painfully and trying to spot objects on the sidewalk that he   
should avoid. Streamers of mist drifted past him, looking like   
ghosts in the dimness. If he got out of this alive, nothing   
Lois could say to him could possibly be as harsh as what he was   
saying to himself, he thought. It was not only dangerous, it   
was humiliating.  
  
He passed another gap between buildings. Something rustled and   
he heard stealthy movement within. All his senses went on   
alert.  
  
"Hey, buddy." It was a man's voice, and another voice laughed.   
The sound sent chills up Clark's backbone. "Hold on a minute."  
  
Clark turned to face the new threat. "I don't want any   
trouble..." he began.  
  
"Whatcha got there?" A short, husky man with a bush of dark   
beard streaked with white emerged from the darkness, and Clark   
saw the glint of metal protruding from one grimy fist. Behind   
him, a taller figure loomed menacingly.  
  
Clark ran. Across the street, a six-foot fence barred his way,   
but he went over it as if he were flying, to come down in a   
small, cluttered, back yard. A dog began to bark frantically,   
and he didn't pause but raced for the opposite side of the   
yard.  
  
As he went up the wooden planks, something warm, wet and filled   
with sharp teeth closed on his ankle. He shook his leg and the   
teeth let go. Never pausing, he scrambled over the top of the   
fence and dropped into the adjoining yard.  
  
Inside the shabby little house, another dog began to bark, loud   
and deep. He ran across the yard as a light came on at an   
upstairs window. Halfway across the grass, he encountered a   
clothesline at neck level and nearly hung himself. As he   
recovered, a voice from above shouted unintelligible words at   
him. Clark disentangled himself from the line, regained his   
equilibrium and sprinted for the fence.  
  
Other voices were raised behind him as he went over and landed   
on his feet in knee-deep grass. His ankle turned under him, but   
he recovered and staggered through the underbrush, intent only   
on putting distance between himself and the growing ruckus   
behind him. None of the residents of the place were likely to   
listen to him at this point, even if he tried to explain.  
  
He barely dodged another clothesline, and a robe of some sort   
tried to wrap itself around his neck. Behind him, he heard a   
deep, savage growl, and a frantic glance over his shoulder   
showed an enormous animal about the size of a small horse   
charging at him, jaws wide open.  
  
He reached the fence, inches ahead of the dog and went up it in   
what might be mistaken for levitation. Jaws closed on the back   
of his briefs and bit into the skin, but he kept going, feeling   
the fabric tear. Then he was falling, to land on his hands and   
knees amid tools and buckets of some kind, with a tremendous   
clatter. Thick liquid spattered across his hands and legs;   
paint, he realized, too late.  
  
Behind him the noise was growing, a cacophony of yelping,   
howling canines and the hoarse shouts of men. Another dog began   
to bark, this time with the high yapping of a smaller breed,   
and the house's upstairs light came on. Clark scrambled to his   
feet and headed for the opposite side of the yard. The   
neighborhood had to end somewhere, he told himself, hopefully   
before somebody with a shotgun showed up. It would be terribly   
ironic if Superman were to end up shot by an irate householder,   
the victim of a simple misapprehension.  
  
He went over the fence, panting. The rush of adrenaline--or   
whatever served Kryptonians in place of it--was beginning to   
wear out. His legs were wobbly, but he came down on the cracked   
sidewalk again. Without pausing, he half staggered, half ran,   
striving to put as much distance between himself and the small   
community as he could.  
  
Somehow, he was still clutching the robe that had attacked him   
during his flight. The sickly light of a flickering street lamp   
revealed it to be a hot pink, terrycloth garment that had seen   
better days. Here and there green smears of paint dotted the   
rough, pink cloth but judging by the breeze that was suddenly   
sharp and cold on the seat of his pants, he needed it, the   
color notwithstanding. He slipped his arms into the sleeves   
that came up to his elbows and dropped his battered wallet,   
which he had miraculously managed to retain, into the pocket.   
Knotting the worn sash around his middle, he slowed his steps   
slightly, striving to regain his breath. The robe strained   
across his shoulders, failed to meet in the front by a good   
three inches, and the length was just barely enough to be   
decent, but it was amazing how much less vulnerable he felt   
with even this much covering.  
  
A shout behind him made him glance back. Several dark figures   
had emerged onto the street, and the same streetlight beneath   
which he had passed just moments before, revealed them to be   
men clad in pajamas and robes, clutching various implements.   
How had they found him?  
  
Clark looked down in sudden realization. Both feet and his left   
leg halfway to the knee were still coated in sticky, green   
paint, and traces of the substance dotted the street behind   
him.  
  
He ran. Behind him, he could hear the shouts of the pursuing   
crowd of men, and tried to summon the energy to out-race them.   
His twisted ankle twinged warningly, and he knew with a sinking   
sensation that he couldn't keep this up for long. The yells   
grew closer and he glanced over his shoulder. The crowd was   
gaining. He looked desperately around.  
  
To his right, an alley opened up, dark and forbidding. He   
dodged down it, trying to ignore the sharp objects that dug   
into his feet. The sound of raised voices to his rear told him   
the crowd had reached the entrance to the alley and spotted   
him. Shouts rose behind him as he ran toward the six-foot stone   
wall that barred the end.  
  
A glance over his shoulder revealed the men pelting toward him,   
all of them shouting. He seized the top of the wall and boosted   
himself up. The men were almost on him as he jumped.  
  
A yell tore itself from his throat as he realized what he had   
done.  
  
On the other side of the stone wall was empty space, and he   
hurtled through thin air toward the oily surface of the river,   
thirty feet below.  
  
**********  
  
The building that had housed the Alley Cat Bar was still   
smoldering, and in places flames continued to lick at the   
frame, Lois saw when she pulled up at the police roadblock.   
Buildings on both sides were blazing merrily, and the decrepit   
businesses across the street had begun to burn. Fire trucks   
crowded the street, and streams of water were directed toward   
the crumbling structures.  
  
The fire had gotten a lot farther than she had seen on   
television; television crews covering the blaze had been kept   
back where they couldn't interfere with the fire fighters. Lois   
could tell that the situation was far more serious than it had   
appeared. The ancient, wood-framed structures were dry--  
tinderboxes just waiting for a spark to ignite them. Once the   
fire had taken hold, they burned with abandon. Metropolis would   
be lucky if the fire didn't spread to the whole section.  
  
She descended from the Cherokee, locking it carefully behind   
her, and sought out one of the police officers at the   
barricade.  
  
The man was young, barely more than a boy. Lois held up her   
press pass and smiled at him. "Lois Lane, Daily Planet. Do they   
know how the fire started, Officer?"  
  
The man glanced at her, then gave her a second, longer look.   
"There was an attempted hold-up in the bar," he told her. "The   
customers overpowered the hold-up men, but apparently one of   
them fired his weapon and shot out a light fixture. According   
to the bartender, that started the fire."  
  
"How bad is it?" Lois asked. "Have they got it under control?"  
  
The man shrugged. "I don't know. Every time we think they've   
got a handle on it, it flares up again somewhere else."  
  
"Any sign of Superman?" she asked, casually.  
  
The man shook his head. "Not so far, ma'am. He's probably   
taking care of an emergency somewhere else. I'm sure he'd help   
if he could."  
  
"I'm sure you're right," Lois said. "Thanks, Officer."  
  
"You're welcome, ma'am. Be careful. This isn't the best area   
for a lady to be in by herself."  
  
This wasn't an area for anybody to be in by himself, Lois   
thought, but she didn't say so. She avoided several scraggly-  
looking characters as she moved back toward the Cherokee. Where   
was Clark? The stolen Kryptonite popped into her mind again,   
but she firmly dismissed the thought. There would be no reason   
for anyone to use Kryptonite on a deck hand. Something else   
must have happened to him.  
  
The nagging feeling of something wrong had not diminished. She   
unlocked the door of the Cherokee and got in, locking it behind   
her, and sat still, staring at the burning buildings. The last   
thing she wanted was to become the sort of wife who worried   
constantly about her husband, demanding to know every second   
where he was, but this was genuinely odd. If Clark had known   
about the fire, surely he'd be here.  
  
He hadn't called her back. Without much hope, she extracted her   
cell phone from the side pocket of her purse and called him   
again. The phone rang several times, then to her relief,   
someone answered.  
  
"Hello? Who's this?"  
  
The relief vanished. It wasn't Clark's voice.  
  
"This is Lois Lane. I'm trying to get hold of my husband."  
  
"Oh. Look, lady, this is Officer Ferguson. Some guy found this   
phone on the floor of the Alley Cat Bar. If you want it, come   
down to the 57th Street Station tomorrow. I don't have time,   
now."  
  
"Wait...!" There was a click of finality as the officer shut   
off the phone. Lois cussed softly under her breath.  
  
Well, that explained why he hadn't answered, earlier. He'd lost   
his phone. But where *was* he? The presence of the phone told   
her he'd been here. It wasn't like him to take off like this   
when there was a genuine emergency. *Something* had happened,   
that was for sure, and it was beginning to look as if it was   
more serious than she'd at first estimated.  
  
Well, maybe he was following Breen. She considered the   
possibility briefly and finally rejected the notion. Superman   
could easily have retrieved his phone and not lost his quarry.   
Besides, he would never have gone off trailing a suspect when   
there were lives at stake, and this fire certainly threatened   
lives. Her gut feeling said he was in some kind of trouble.  
  
But, what kind of trouble could Superman have gotten into?  
  
The thought of the stolen Kryptonite resurfaced, and she felt a   
sinking sensation in her gut. What if he *had* encountered it?   
Okay, it seemed unlikely that Timothy Breen had the resources   
to break into STAR Labs, but he was, after all, a courier for   
Intergang. Suppose the person he'd been supposed to meet   
tonight had been the one behind the theft? Intergang had   
tentacles everywhere and one of their unstated but ongoing   
goals was to eliminate Superman.  
  
Without another thought, she dialed Bobby Bigmouth. If anyone   
could help her, he was the one to ask.  
  
The phone rang half a dozen times before someone picked it up.   
A familiar, surprisingly alert voice said, "Bobby here. Who's   
there?"  
  
"Bobby, this is Lois. I need some help."  
  
"Lois?" Bobby sounded surprised. "Do you know what time it is?"  
  
"Yeah. It's four-twelve in the morning. I've got a problem. Can   
we meet somewhere?"  
  
Bobby sounded doubtful. "I dunno. I'm over by that fire in   
Suicide Slum. Mebbe I could meet you at the Mandarin Palace in   
a couple of hours."  
  
"Bobby, I'm sitting by the barricade in my Jeep. Where are   
you?"  
  
"Huh?" Bobby's voice trailed off. "Oh, I see you. Stay where   
you are. I'll be right there."  
  
"Bobby, since when did you have a cellular phone...?"  
  
Fifteen seconds later, there was a rap on her window and in the   
flickering light of the fire, she could see Bobby's face   
through the glass. She pointed to the passenger door, reaching   
across to unlock it. A few seconds later, Bobby had climbed   
into the seat beside her. "What're you doin' here, Lois?"  
  
"Bobby, Clark was in the Alley Cat Bar this evening--  
surveillance," she added at his raised eyebrow. "Something's   
happened to him. He was watching an Intergang courier named   
Timothy Breen. Do you know anything about it?"  
  
"Breen? Sure. He was meetin' some guy there tonight."  
  
"Do you know who it was?" Lois asked.  
  
"Naw. I saw him, though. Big, tall guy with a bad toupee,   
wearin' a business suit and a trenchcoat. The guy, not the   
toupee. He gave Breen a box about this big." Bobby made hand   
motions. "I couldn't see what was in it."  
  
Lois felt her eyes widen. "You were *in* there?"  
  
"Sure. I was sittin' next to the jukebox. I ducked behind it   
when those guys held up the place. Then the fight started, and   
this guy grabbed the box."  
  
"Away from Breen?"  
  
"Naw. One of the holdup guys took it. They had a pile of   
people's stuff. This one guy grabbed it and got out the door."  
  
"Then it's gone," Lois said.  
  
"Nope." Bobby looked smug. "I followed him. Didn't wanna stay   
in there and maybe get killed. I saw what he did with it.   
Figured it was probably good for a Chinese dinner from you and   
Clark, or somethin'." He reached under his jacket. "Here."  
  
**********  
  
Clark flailed at the air, trying to force himself farther out   
over the water. Thirty feet or so wasn't a killing fall,   
assuming that he struck in the right position and that the   
water was deep enough. His tumble towards the river seemed to   
take forever and conversely no time at all. He could see the   
shimmering, oily surface rushing toward him and found himself   
praying for just a tiny amount of good luck on this incredibly   
unlucky night.  
  
He hit feet first and his body plunged deep under the water.   
His feet actually touched the sandy, weed-filled bottom of the   
river, and then he was shooting toward the surface, trying hard   
to suppress the almost overwhelming urge to breathe.  
  
Just as the feeling became unbearable, his head burst from the   
water and he sucked in a huge lungful of air.  
  
For several seconds he floated, struggling to regain his   
breath. The air smelled of decaying fish and rotten eggs, with   
a piquant hint of sewer. Clark tried not to think of the sludge   
in which he was immersed and treading water, attempted to spot   
the shoreline in the darkness.  
  
The pale glow of the sky outlined the riverbank. In this place,   
the banks of the river rose straight up, black against the sky.   
There was no way he was going to climb out here. He swam slowly   
upstream, resting frequently and looking for a place where he   
would be able to make it back out onto dry land. The pink robe   
clung to his arms and hampered his movements, but he was   
reluctant to discard it, considering the condition of his   
briefs. If he ever managed to make it out of the water, he   
would need it in order to avoid a charge of indecent exposure.  
  
How long had it been? He didn't know. It seemed as if hours had   
gone by since he had plunged into the water, but it was still   
dark so it couldn't be that long. The banks of the river didn't   
seem so high, now. Maybe he could find a place low enough to   
pull himself out. In the movies, the fearless adventurer always   
found a tree limb or a log or something to grab onto, but the   
Hobbs River didn't seem to have such conveniences available to   
the unlucky individual who happened to fall in. Clark rested,   
treading water with as little effort as he could manage. He   
hadn't been in such great shape to start with, and the smelly,   
dark water was cold, to boot. He was getting tired.  
  
A pier extended from the side of the riverbank. For a few   
seconds he stared at the dark silhouette, uncomprehending, and   
then, with new energy, altered his direction toward it.  
  
The heavy, ancient pylons were slimy, covered with moss or   
algae or something, and he couldn't climb them. He swam along   
under the rough, wooden planks, hoping that there would be some   
sort of ladder he could use to get out of here. For all his   
exertion, he was beginning to feel chilly.  
  
His foot struck bottom. Cautiously, Clark lowered his other   
foot and an instant later was standing with his chin barely out   
of the water.  
  
For a few seconds he stood still, just resting, but it was too   
cold to do nothing for long. He struck out toward the bank   
again, floundering and flailing his way forward. Once, he   
stepped into a hole and went under again. He surfaced, trying   
not to think about what was in the water, and paddled forward.   
Then it was suddenly waist-deep, and a couple of steps farther,   
knee-deep. There was a narrow beach here, under the pier, and   
in the dim light, he could see that the beach became a steep,   
but climbable riverbank.  
  
When he clawed his way up the muddy, six-foot bank, he   
discovered he was inside a chain-link fence that separated him   
from a city street. A locked gate barred his exit, but a short,   
painful climb up the fence, careful negotiation of his way over   
the three strings of barbed wire at the top, and he came down   
onto the scratchy grass that lined the roadway. He sank down on   
the nearly flat top of a yellow fire hydrant, breathing hard,   
and surveyed the most recent damage to his person. His briefs   
had acquired another tear, not that it mattered now, and he   
sucked absently on a cut in the heel of his hand inflicted by   
the wire, but at least he was back on dry land. Now the   
question was, where was he?  
  
He was obviously somewhere in the riverfront district, still   
within the fringes of Suicide Slum, but the better sections of   
the city weren't far away. With luck, maybe he could flag down   
a cop and get some help.  
  
He shivered. There was a light breeze blowing, and as wet as he   
was, it felt like the breath off a glacier. He looked around   
for a windbreak of some kind.  
  
On the other side of the street were buildings. The street here   
was deserted. The feeling was eerie, but he told himself that   
most of the residents in this district were probably still   
sleeping. With a last glance at the dark river behind him, he   
crossed the thoroughfare and stepped out of the wind behind the   
wall of a battered shed.  
  
A glance to the east confirmed that it wasn't yet quite dawn,   
but it must be getting close to five a.m. There was the very   
faintest hint of a lightening of the sky on the horizon. Before   
long, the sun would be coming up. In spite of his attire, Clark   
welcomed that. Things wouldn't seem nearly so bad by daylight.  
  
In the shelter of the old shed, he removed the robe and wrung   
it out as well as he could. A whiff of the odor rising off the   
fabric made him wince. The terrycloth seemed to have soaked up   
a good deal of the river's stench, but he didn't have much   
choice. He was going to have to wear it, at least a little   
while longer.  
  
He slid the robe back on, shivering at the feeling of the wet   
fabric and knotted the sash around his waist. His wallet was   
still in the pocket. He hoped there wasn't much irreplaceable   
in it that could be damaged by the water. The quicker he got   
into relatively safe territory the better off he would be.  
  
The soles of his feet were abraded, bruised and sore from his   
journey over the rough pavement. Some of the green paint had   
washed off, but his feet were still tinted with green. He was a   
mess, he admitted unhappily. Explaining it to Lois wasn't   
something he was looking forward to. Upon thinking it over,   
however, he acknowledged to himself that it probably didn't   
matter. She was going to kill him whatever he did.  
  
The light to the east was growing stronger. Well, there was no   
point in putting this off any longer. Clark took a deep breath,   
stepped out of his sheltered spot and strode forward.  
  
**********  
  
Lois took the heavy, little box from Bobby. On the lid was the   
unmistakable logo of STAR Labs. She felt her breath catch.   
Judging by the weight, this thing was made of lead. Unless she   
was greatly mistaken, this was the box containing the   
Kryptonite that had been stolen two days ago--no, three days,   
now--from STAR Labs.  
  
She shook it lightly. Something clunked inside.  
  
Bobby raised his brows. "Is this the Kryptonite STAR Labs lost   
the other day?" he inquired.  
  
It figured that Bobby would know. "Probably." She tugged at the   
top. "It's locked. Hold on a sec." She fished in her handbag.   
"Where's my lock pick...ah." She withdrew the item. "Just a   
minute."  
  
Bobby sounded surprised. "You carry a lock pick in your purse?"  
  
"Sure, doesn't everybody...there!"  
  
There was a satisfying click. She withdrew the lock pick and   
opened the lid. The chunk of Kryptonite glowed pale green in   
the darkness.  
  
"I guess that settles that," Bobby said, after a stunned   
second. "Y'know, I've never seen Kryptonite before. Nasty-  
lookin' stuff."  
  
"Yeah." Lois snapped the lid closed again and set the box on   
the floor.  
  
"I'd like to know who the guy was that grabbed this," Bobby   
said. "I guess it coulda been Clark. He had the right build,   
but I couldn't see him very well. He took off west, walkin'."  
  
"What was he wearing?" Lois asked.  
  
"Jeans, and a black leather jacket," Bobby said. "I couldn't   
see his face. He had black hair, though."  
  
Would Clark have done that? Lois frowned, thinking. "That's   
what Clark had on. Did the man who gave Breen this box open   
it?"  
  
"Yeah, I think he did. Like I said, I couldn't see what was in   
it. 'Sides," Bobby added, "in that business they don't trust   
nobody. Breen'd have insisted."  
  
"I suppose so. If Clark saw it, he'd have tried to get it,"   
Lois said. "Superman's his friend."  
  
"Yeah, I know," Bobby said. "But harin' off on foot in Suicide   
Slum is crazy. He'll get himself killed sure."  
  
Lois bit her lip. Could Clark have been close enough to get   
exposed to this stuff? Darn him, anyway! She'd told him to be   
careful, and now he'd lost his phone and disappeared. He might   
be walking through the worst part of the slums without his   
super powers. What should she do?  
  
She glanced at Bobby. "I have to find him," she said. "I owe   
you a Chinese dinner, Bobby. Thanks."  
  
"Y'know, Lois," Bobby said, "I think marriage is good for you.   
You haven't insulted me once. Look, I'll show you the most   
direct way outta here. You can drive an' I'll look. Maybe we'll   
find him. He's got about a three-hour start on us, but he can't   
have gone too far on foot around here. He went down that   
street, there, headed west." He pointed. "If it was me and I   
didn't have a ride, I'd make tracks away from the docks as fast   
as I could."  
  
"Okay." Lois started the engine, backed up and swiveled the   
Cherokee around. "Let's go."  
  
**********  
  
The horizon was definitely brighter. A pale, pink glow was   
slowly growing, turning the dark water of the river a muddy   
pinkish color. Clark hoped it would warm up quickly. He was   
cold, wet, tired and filthy-dirty, and smelled to high heaven.   
All he wanted to do was go home, take a hot shower and fall   
into bed.  
  
Here and there, a shabbily dressed figure shuffled by. Clark   
glanced down at himself and sighed. When he got into the more   
civilized sections of the city, he was bound to face   
embarrassing questions at the very least. As it was, this   
neighborhood was still bad but nothing like the area he had   
traversed during the night. He passed a liquor store   
advertising beer, a metal grate covering the door, and the   
windows shuttered. The wind on his back was cold and he found   
himself shivering. He had to clench his jaw to keep his teeth   
from chattering. As Superman, he tended to forget the kind of   
discomforts endured by ordinary humans, but it would be a long   
time before he forgot again after this past night. When he   
could take the chill no longer, he ducked into an alley between   
a grocery store and an old corner gas station for the meagre   
shelter the ancient building offered. The gas station was   
closed; the lights in the small, adjoining convenience store   
were off and the door appeared to be securely locked. Maybe if   
he waited here, the owner would show up before long and he   
could make a phone call from the pay phone he could see through   
the cracked window glass.  
  
It was still cold but once out of the breeze, even the wet   
terrycloth provided some small amount of insulation. This   
couldn't last, however. He had to get help before he froze to   
death. The temperature was probably around forty-five degrees,   
but wearing wet clothing--what there was of it, anyway--the   
effective temperature was lower, at least to him. His fingers   
and toes felt like ice and his lips were numb. He huddled   
against the wall, reluctant to step back into the wind.   
Besides, he was tired. A few minutes of rest couldn't hurt,   
could it?  
  
He had almost slipped into a doze when the sound of raised   
voices jerked him awake. Cautiously, he rose to his feet and   
peered out of his inadequate shelter.  
  
The sun hadn't yet risen, but the eastern horizon was ablaze   
with the pink light of pre-sunrise and fluffy pink clouds   
dotted the sky. An elderly man, his back to the door of the gas   
station's run-down convenience store, was facing two, burly   
men. One of the two held a baseball bat, and the other a knife,   
and both were grinning.  
  
"Open it up, Pops," the taller of the two said. "We got   
business we wanna transact."  
  
"But I'm telling you, I don't have any money in there," the   
older man protested. "I took the receipts to the bank last   
night."  
  
"Open it," the second man said. "Don't give us a hassle, Pop."  
  
"Hey," Clark said.  
  
The two men turned and both jaws dropped. As one, they began to   
laugh.  
  
"Beat it, mister," the shorter man said, between snickers. "It   
*is* 'mister', isn't it?"  
  
Clark didn't give them a chance to regain their composure. He   
charged, knocking the bat-wielder back against the wall with   
his shoulder. The breath whooshed out of the mugger in a pained   
grunt. Clark wrenched the bat from his hands and spun in time   
to meet the man with the knife.  
  
The blade glanced along his arm, but Clark used the end of the   
bat to ram his second assailant in the solar plexus. He went   
down on his rear on the ground, the knife clattering away. Both   
men scrambled to their feet and ran.  
  
The store's proprietor stared at him, clearly unsure whether   
Clark was a rescuer or another mugger. Clark dropped the bat,   
suddenly aware of a hot line of pain down his forearm, and the   
fact that blood was leaking from a deep slash that extended   
nearly from his elbow to his wrist.  
  
"Are you all right?" he asked.  
  
Mutely, the man nodded. His eyes were fixed on the wet, pink   
robe. "Who...who are you?"  
  
"My name--" Clark felt the need to lean against the wall. "I'm   
Clark Kent. I got--mugged. They took my clothes." He subdued a   
slight wave of nausea.  
  
"Oh, my Lord. Just a minute." The elderly man opened the door   
hastily and gave him a hand. "Come on inside and sit down."  
  
**********  
  
Lois steered slowly through the broken, dirty streets, peering   
anxiously about. Bobby Bigmouth sat alertly beside her, looking   
in all directions. It was just after five in the morning, and   
to the east, the sky was turning a brilliant pink and gold   
color. So far, they had seen no sign of Clark.  
  
The cellular phone tucked into the top of Lois's purse   
shrilled. Her heart leaped into her mouth at the sound and she   
dug frantically, one-handed, in her bag for it.  
  
"Just keep your eyes on the road," Bobby said. "I'll get it."   
He fished the phone out of her purse and flipped it open.   
"Here."  
  
Lois took the phone. "Lois Lane."  
  
"Ms. Lane?" an unfamiliar voice said. "Are you Clark Kent's   
wife?"  
  
"Yes! Yes, I am. Is he there?"  
  
"This is Bob Gilmore. I'm the owner of Bob's Filling Station on   
the corner of Rose Street and Paradise Drive. Your husband's   
here with me."  
  
"Oh, thank God! Is he all right?"  
  
Gilmore hesitated. "Here, I'll let you talk to him."  
  
There was a rustling sound, then Clark's voice said, "Lois?"  
  
"Clark! Are you all right?"  
  
"Um...more or less. Could you come and pick me up?"  
  
"I'll be there as soon as I can!"  
  
"Uh--can you bring me some clothes?"  
  
"I'm in the Jeep--clothes? Why do you--no, don't bother to   
explain. I'll be there in a few minutes."  
  
Bobby looked at her, grinning slightly as she hung up. "He's   
okay?"  
  
"I don't know. He didn't sound quite right. Can you show me how   
to get to the corner of Rose and Paradise?"  
  
"Bob's Filling Station? Sure," Bobby said. "Me and Gil are   
buds. Turn left at the next corner..."  
  
**********  
  
Clark, sitting on a hard, plastic chair, wrapped in Bob   
Gilmore's jacket, winced slightly but endeavored to hold still   
while the filling station owner swabbed at the cut on his arm   
with antiseptic from the establishment's first aid kit. A   
coffeepot perked noisily in the background.  
  
"When your wife gets here, you have her take you straight to   
the doctor, you hear me?" he told Clark. "Wouldn't want this   
cut to get infected, and that river's polluted pretty bad. I'm   
surprised it didn't kill you outright."  
  
"Sure. Thanks, Gil, you're a real life saver," Clark said. "I   
owe you a lot for this."  
  
"Shoot," Gilmore said, "you don't owe me nothing. You didn't   
have to charge in that way. You coulda stayed out of it."  
  
Clark shook his head. "No, I couldn't."  
  
Gilmore grinned slightly. "That attitude could get you killed,   
son, but thanks for helpin' out. You sure saved my bacon." He   
wrapped gauze around the injury with surprising skill. "You're   
lucky I used to be a medic in the army. There you go. That'll   
hold you 'til you see a doctor." He straightened up and glanced   
at the coffeepot. "Looks like the coffee's ready. You take   
sugar?"  
  
A few minutes later, Clark finished his second cup. "Ah, that's   
better."  
  
Gil fetched him a third. "Feelin' any warmer?"  
  
"Yeah," Clark said. He took another swallow of the hot liquid.   
"I'll feel even better when I can get a bath and some clothes."  
  
"I'll bet." Gil glanced over his shoulder as the silver   
Cherokee pulled up outside with a screech of tires. "That your   
wife?"  
  
"Yeah." In spite of the fact that Lois was undoubtedly going to   
kill him, the release of tension was so great he felt a little   
light-headed. He drained the coffee cup and set it down. "I'll   
probably need a doctor after she gets hold of me."  
  
The old man chuckled. "'Fraid I can't help you there." He went   
to the door and unlocked it as Lois opened the Jeep's door and   
jumped out, followed by Bobby Bigmouth. "Come on in, Ms. Lane.   
Mr. Kent's a bit worse for wear, but he'll be okay. Hi, Bobby."  
  
Bobby followed Lois into the room. "Hi, Gil." He looked over at   
Clark and both his eyebrows went up. "Wow, Clark, you're a   
mess. You fall in the river or somethin'?"  
  
Clark looked down at himself and the sodden pink bathrobe and   
T-shirt that lay on the floor beside him. "You wouldn't believe   
me if I told you, Bobby," he said. "I'm not sure *I* believe   
it."  
  
Lois looked him up and down. "Well," she said acerbically, "I   
want to hear it, anyway. I'll get the blanket out of the Jeep."  
  
She returned with the car blanket within a moment. Clark got to   
his feet and staggered slightly as his head swam. Gil and Bobby   
grabbed him. "Easy there, Clark," Bobby said. "You look a   
little wobbly."  
  
Lois wrapped the blanket around him. "Come on, Clark, let's get   
you in the Jeep. I think I can wait to hear what happened."  
  
**********  
  
It was an hour and a half later. Clark pulled the plug, rose   
carefully from the hot water of the tub and stepped out onto   
the thick bathmat. The bathroom was full of steam, but he   
didn't care. He was finally warm. Lois handed him a towel,   
glancing approvingly at her husband's muscular body. "Well, you   
smell a lot better."  
  
"I feel a lot better, too" Clark said. He glanced at his   
bandaged arm and grimaced. "I'm sorry about all this, honey."  
  
Lois giggled. "It's okay, Clark, I think you've been punished   
enough. Now that it's over it's funny, even if it wasn't at the   
time. The thought of you in a hot pink bathrobe...I always said   
you looked good in pink."  
  
Clark groaned. "Don't remind me. I'm going to have to replace   
it. That one will never be the same again."  
  
"How are you going to explain it?"  
  
"I'm not. It's a gift from a friend, and that's the end of it."  
  
"Well, at least wait until you get your powers back before you   
go into that section of town again," Lois said.  
  
"Don't worry, I will," Clark said. He yawned. "What a night. It   
was probably good for me, though. It reminded me not to take my   
powers for granted. Did you call Perry?"  
  
"Yes. I told him you had a little accident on your stakeout   
last night. You're on sick leave until tomorrow."  
  
"And you say I'm the master of understatements. Get that box   
back to Dr. Klein, will you?"  
  
Lois shook her head. "I already talked to him while you were   
soaking in the tub. We're keeping it in the secret compartment,   
with Dr. Klein's blessing until they've got a safer place for   
it. He doesn't want to take a chance that it might get into   
Intergang's hands again."  
  
"You're probably right," Clark said. He yawned a second time   
and opened the door to the bedroom. "I'm beat. We can start   
work on the Councilman Pearson connection tomorrow."  
  
"I'll have Jimmy start researching his background as soon as I   
get to the office." Lois watched as Clark put on his pajamas.   
"I owe Bobby a Chinese dinner, too. He really helped me out."  
  
"Yeah. I guess you never really know who your friends are until   
you need them," Clark said. He crawled into bed and pulled the   
covers up to his chin. Lois leaned over him and kissed him   
lightly. "Good night, Clark. I'm glad you're home safe."  
  
"Me, too." Clark was struggling to hold his eyes open. "Good   
night, honey. I'll see you this afternoon." He turned over, and   
closed his eyes. He was already asleep when Lois turned off the   
light and tiptoed from the room.  
  
The End.  
  
19  
  
22   
  



End file.
